


thirst

by spiritscript



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Bartender!Osamu, Crack, Getting Together, M/M, Osamu tiddies, Pining, Sexual Content, bottom Suna, buff Osamu, honestly idk i just think in bartender osamu, pining suna
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-16
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:46:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28111875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiritscript/pseuds/spiritscript
Summary: “What’s your problem?”Rintarou looks up at the smiling face of the bartender. Does a double take. Looks back to the stage where the bleach blond, shirtless thirst trap begins another song, and then back to the bartender who’s laughing now and throws the small towel in his hand over his shoulder. His broad shoulder. One of two very broad shoulders.Osamu is a very strong, very sexy bartender and Rintarou may be a little weak for him.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Suna Rintarou
Comments: 54
Kudos: 386
Collections: Bartender Osamu, SunaOsa





	thirst

**Author's Note:**

> if you [follow me on twitter](https://twitter.com/ohmiyamy/status/1339276178973220866?s=19), you'll know that i have been going crazy over bartender Osamu for the last two days so like, I had to make my own food 
> 
> I would like to not thank but also thank everyone that fed into my brainrot, there's too many of you to name, but you know who you are

He has to admit it. Unfortunately, he has to admit it. The Jackals are a decent band. Maybe even good. Could be better if the lead singer would put on a shirt and keep his tongue in his mouth, but it seems to work for them all the same. It’s with this unfortunate concession that Rintarou decides he finally deserves a drink. 

He doesn’t even want to be here, roped into it by none other than Motoya who was surprisingly backed by Tatsuki, because apparently, due to connections, they couldn’t go as it would be ‘suspicious’. That’s a pile of shit in Rintarou’s opinion, they just didn’t want to be the ones to go. And so he had been left with the job of scouting out the competition.

So Rintarou moves to the bar, maneuvering his way through the thickening crowd, feet sticking slightly to the floor with every step, until he finds a space and a stool at the bar. They didn’t say he couldn’t get wasted as he did his recon, so he’s going to get wasted.

“What’s your problem?”

Rintarou looks up at the smiling face of the bartender. Does a double take. Looks back to the stage where the bleach blond, shirtless thirst trap begins another song, and then back to the bartender who’s laughing now and throws the small towel in his hand over his shoulder. His broad shoulder. One of two very broad shoulders.

“Brother,” he says with a dramatic sigh and looks off to the side wistfully, “unfortunately.”

Rintarou nods and swallows past the thick lump in his throat and tries to dislodge his tongue which has begun to feel rather heavy in his mouth. Why is anyone looking at the stage at the cheap knock-off and definitely lower grade brother when there is six feet of muscle behind the bar wearing a shirt that gapes a little on his chest and the rolled up sleeves of which strain slightly around his biceps? He certainly doesn’t know and doesn’t think he could be coerced to remove his eyes from Tall, Broad, and Handsome Bartender.

“Shitty friends,” Rintarou finally manages to cough out from somewhere, and the better brother clicks his tongue and sighs sympathetically.

“I know all about that,” he says, eyes not so subtly flicking towards the small stage. “How about a cocktail?”

Rintarou looks into his grey eyes, which is hard considering the slightly gaping shirt (surely he has shirts that fit him properly?), then around the dim room smelling of sweat and alcohol, then back to those eyes.

“This doesn’t really look like the type of place that does cocktails.”

He smiles as a reply and reaches beneath the bar, pulling out a set of cocktail instruments.

“It’s not, but I can make an exception. ”

And Rintarou is forced to just watch, throat constricting even further, when he turns his broad, broad back to him, and slowly reaches up for the alcohol needed. As he stretches, the shirt he’s wearing rides up ever so slightly over his low slung jeans, unveiling a small trail of skin and the smallest glimpse of black ink trailing over it and down below the waistband of his jeans. 

Rintarou really, _really_ needs a drink.

“I’m Osamu,” he says pouring alcohol into a silver shaker, then slamming the top on of it—causing Ritarou to jolt a little—and proceeds to throw it into the air, then catches it perfectly behind his back, grinning, “but ya can call me ‘Samu,” he says as he spins it in the palm of his hand. 

“Ri—Rintarou. Just Rin is fine,” he stutters, but he doesn’t have time to be ashamed, just glad he managed to say something. Osamu nods, either ignoring the stutter or genuinely not hearing it, and begins to pour the drink into a glass, holding the shaker high in the air as the liquid trickles down in a controlled stream. 

“Nice ta meet ya Rin,” he says, sliding the drink in front of him, a large grin on his face. Then he winks and Rintarou’s stomach tightens just a little (lies, it tightens a lot), “it’s on the house.”

Rintarou can only nod. He really, really, _really_ needs a drink.

“Wait!” Osamu suddenly says, the much needed drink so tantalisingly close to Rintarou’s lips, and he really needs the excuse to stop looking at the man behind the bar. 

Yet he does as he’s told (he would do a lot more without being asked), and freezes like that, holding the the scotch glass filled with a pink cocktail in the air in front of him. Him, also six feet something, dark brown hair, more tattoos than his mother would like to know about, and enough metal in his ears and his face to be abductable with a large enough magnet as his father likes to say, and a usually deadpan expression that makes his grandmother tut and tell him so smile more because he _has such a pretty smile, Rin Rin._ And now he’s been reduced to a squirming mess, or a dog in heat.

“Here,” Osamu says, straightening up from where he’d ducked behind the counter, and places a little, yellow umbrella in his drink. He smiles brightly, clearly proud of himself, his eyes flicking to take in all of Rintarou, “suits ya.”

A squirming mess or a dog in heat indeed.

And so Rintarou finds himself returning to the bar most Tuesday nights since his own band, Rajin, never has gigs on Tuesday nights. He goes for educational purposes and educational purposes only of course. Like learning what material the sexy bartender’s shirt is made from since it doesn’t burst with every twitch of his muscles despite the fact Rintarou swears he can hear the stitches strain whenever he crosses his arms. 

Everytime he goes, he walks straight to the back corner, finds his place on a bar stool and waits for Osamu to notice—not that he usually has to wait long, Osamu is, if anything, efficient. Then watches as Osamu’s mouth stretches from his customer service smile to a cheeky grin. Then, without a word, Osamu turns around again, stretches for a bottle of alcohol—Rintarou tries to get another look at the ink he now knows goes over his hip bone—and throws a bottle into the air. Apparently he’d worked in one of those upscale flair cocktail bars, and he uses every opportunity to show off the skills he’d learned there. 

Of course there was the night when the lid of the shaker came loose and the amber concoction spilled all over the front of his very white shirt that turned very see through and made his very admirable chest very visible, and Rintarou really wanted to offer to still drink it. So the alcohol didn’t go to waste of course. 

Or there was the night he saw him lifting a keg over his shoulder and really where does that man buy his shirts? Rintarou doesn’t think about that night too much or his mind wanders into dangerous territories like, _if he can lift that and hold it on his shoulder so easily, then surely he can do the same with me—_

Yeah he doesn’t think about that night and especially not in public when wearing very tight jeans.

Tonight, once again, Rintarou finds his place by the edge of the bar just as he feels his phone vibrate in his back pocket. Glancing at it, he fights the urge to scowl when he sees it’s Motoya’s name beside the little message icon.

“Come here often?”

Rin looks up, “not as much as you it seems.”

Osamu grins back slightly lopsidedly. “Hmm if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were stalking me or something.” 

“You’re clearly a bit too trusting if you think I’m not.” Smooth Rintarou. Real smooth.

But Osamu somehow still laughs, broad shoulders shaking slightly as his eyes crease, and pulls out his cocktail set up. Once again, Osamu’s strong, dexterous hands grab two bottles and he begins flipping them, bouncing one off an elbow, and makes one land in the shaker. The shaker which he then proceeds to shake and throw and catch perfectly (somewhat unfortunately). Then he pours it all into the awaiting glass and adds a pink umbrella this time.

This too has become habitual; Osamu makes him a cocktail and Rintarou gives his opinion and Osamu refuses to charge it for him under the guise of research. Except tonight, unlike every other night—as he watches Rintarou’s face for each and every reaction to the drink—he leans his forearms onto the countertop so his face is close enough that Rintarou needs to quickly take a drink to stop his mouth from doing something he probably shouldn't.

This isn't like him. Not at all. Rintarou’s never been one to have a crush or lust after someone. He’s usually aloof and disinterested and fucks when he wants and he’s never felt this, this… whatever this is. But something about Miya Osamu makes him forget his own name so all he can think about is his arms and his shoulders and his chest and his strong hands and his playful smile and sharp incisors and his grey eyes and all the tattoos he cannot see but really, really wants to.

So he focuses on the drink instead, letting it roll around his tongue a little, and feels the way it burns a thin trail down the back of his throat. After a moment of ‘consideration’, he opens his mouth to give a reply to Osamu’s expectant face when he’s rudely cut off.

“Thank fuck,” Atsumu, Osamu’s brother and perpetually shirtless thirst trap, almost shouts from the stage, despite the microphone and sound system dedicated entirely to making it easier to hear him, which causes Osamu to roll his eyes dramatically and smile apologetically. 

"Before our next song, can I please ask the hot dude that always sits at the bar with the sexy smudged eyeliner and lip ring ta just fuck my brother already because if I hafta hear him yearning fer ya one more ti-” he's cut off as a drumstick hits the back of his head.

Rintarou doesn’t actually see that last part, inferring it instead from the commotion on stage, because he’s frozen in place looking at the brother that he was just publicly told to ‘just fuck already,’ who also seems frozen momentarily.

Osamu’s face shifts slowly, cracks, and turns into what Rin has come to know as his overly polite customer service smile that still manages to read ‘don’t fuck with me.’ He raises a finger, eyes showing a deep anger that must only come with a lifetime of having to deal with the shit of an asshole you once shared a womb with. 

“One sec,” he says and easily hoists himself over the bar (because he is that fucking strong) before Rintarou can even fully process what happened.

His eyes follow Osamu through the crowd that parts easily, allowing him to stomp through without resistance. His brother's face has become one of genuine terror, and he raises his hands in pre-emptive surrender. It doesn’t work. Osamu climbs up and hauls him (easily because he is that strong) off to the side of the stage. 

Rintarou’s still a little stunned and only vaguely registers the bassist saying something to the short guitarist, and then begin a new song without the lyrics.

Rintarou decides to check his phone again, and takes a large mouthful of his drink. He needs the liquid courage. He opens the message Motoya sent him earlier, and reads the sarcasm seeping through it about him coming here again.

He begins typing out a message, then deletes it. Types it again, deletes it again. Motoya is a great friend and bandmate, but also most decidedly an absolute little shit who most certainly will not let Rintarou live this down ever, should he find out. But Rintarou also doesn’t know what the hell to do in this situation. Should he leave? Down his drink and just go? He types out the message once more. Deletes it once more. Looks at his dwindling battery life. Decides on just sending a singular middle finger emoji, and goes for his drink again. Another is placed in front of him as he returns his now empty glass.

He looks up to see Osamu again, looking sheepish, a small apologetic smile that he still manages to make look utterly endearing and Rintarou realises he never did have even the faintest of intention to leave. 

“This one’s on my brother, I’m taking it directly out of his payment.” He says.

Rintarou nods, “tell him thanks.”

Osamu’s nose wrinkles and Rintarou finds himself laughing despite himself.

Sighing, Osamu runs a hand through his hair, and from his peripheral Rintarou can see that small snaking of ink on his hip bone as well as the light trail of hair disappearing under his jeans. Yeah he was never going to leave, no matter how embarrassed he might have been because, even if this didn’t give him the impression he may just be able to find out if his cock is as big as Rintarou imagines it is, he is too addicted to not get whatever enjoyment he can from Osamu—even if he’s left to feel like a squirming mess and a dog in heat whenever he leaves.

“Ignore him,” Osamu says, and even in the dim lights he looks a little pink as he indicates to the stage.

“Oh,” Rintarou replies, and picks up the new glass of alcohol. Without even tasting it, he knows it’s his favourite vodka, “really? That’s kinda a shame.” 

He takes a sip and looks up at Osamu expectantly. There’s a tense moment before he speaks again, “does that mean you don’t want to fuck?” And he quirks and eyebrow and smiles a little himself, and now he knows for sure there’s a blush on Osamu’s cheeks. It takes him a moment to recover, but then Osamu throws his head back a little and laughs (Rintarou’s current favourite sound until he gets to hear another one) running his hand through his hair again.

“No. No that definitely does not mean that.”

Rintarou nods sagely, “good.”

So objectively, Rintarou knew that getting railed by Tall, Broad, and Handsome Bartender, would be fantastic. Objectively, he knew he would crumble the moment he finally took that fucking shirt off. Objectively he knew that he’d find a new religion with his dick (that proved to be even bigger than Rintarou dreamt and hoped) inside of him, but he didn’t know just how overwhelming it would be. 

As the night drew to an end, Osamu had poured them both a shot of tequila, and Rintarou felt his jeans tighten when Osamu had grabbed his wrist and licked it before pouring the salt on it with a grin.

When the doors were finally closed and locked, Rintarou didn’t hesitate in finally getting Osamu’s fucking shirt off him (maybe scattering a few buttons along the way) and tracing the lines of what was revealed to be a Kitsune tattoo that snaked its way up his torso and down his thigh and over his also extremely well defined ass. Rintarou also found out just how strong Osamu was up close and personal, as he wrapped his legs around that tiny fucking waist of his and clung onto his shoulders for dear life, digging his nails in maybe a little too hard into his very broad shoulders, but also completely fucking incapable of not doing that and/or making his body do what he wanted. 

Then, the sex god himself, without faltering in pounding Rintarou to heaven and hell and back to earth, took the little pink umbrella tucked behind Rintarou’s ear and laughed such a sweet little laugh that Rintarou forgot where he was for a moment, until he was dragged back by a particularly deft thrust that had him seeing stars, the umbrella now tucked behind Osamu’s ear. 

And if he wasn’t being held up by Tall, Broad, and Handsome Osamu, he’d have been a puddle on the floor a long time ago. But he was being held up and then he was bent over the countertop while Osamu tugged on his hair until his jaw was slack and he was incapable of coherence, because the moans coming from behind him as Osamu slammed into him over and over and over, unrelenting in their rhythm or intensity, was indeed the best fucking sound Rintarou had ever heard. 

Rintarou shows up to his own band practise the next day, walking a little funny, a scarf around his neck despite the heat outside, with a new number in his phone and a new gig for Rajin every Wednesday (and a dick appointment afterwards).

**Author's Note:**

> i just think [redacted to preserve some of the author's dignity]
> 
> Also thanks to [Hannah](https://twitter.com/hanoorins) and [K](https://twitter.com/d_fenestrate) for reading this before I posted because I was so caught up in bartender Osamu I didn't even know if this fic made sense
> 
> I would like to now ~~shamelessly beg~~ humbly implore others to create bartender Osamu content for my sanity


End file.
